<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Troubadour by sohox</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24144067">Troubadour</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sohox/pseuds/sohox'>sohox</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Troubadour [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Rhett &amp; Link</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - No Children, Alternate Universe - No Girlfriends/No Wives, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, Reader Insert, Rhett's in a band, Unprotected Sex, mild exhibitionism</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 18:34:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,063</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24144067</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sohox/pseuds/sohox</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Your band is playing a secret show at the Troubadour--one night, ten songs--sandwiched between two other bands that tend to make their rounds in your circle. You and the boys are expecting to spend one night in LA, then fly back to New York to play a festival that weekend. </p><p>Your tour manager, Johnny, suggests posting about the show to your band’s Instagram stories and you agree, mostly to alert your fans, but maybe also a little bit as a beacon call. It’s been weeks, and you’d be lying to yourself if you didn’t admit to needing a little stress relief. </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Rhett McLaughlin/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Troubadour [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2109837</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Troubadour</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I don't know why you guys put up with me, but I hope this will work for some of you. It's super self indulgent. I just wanted to see what happened?! </p><p>You and Rhett are in your late twenties/early 30s, both in mid-level bands that tour in the same circles. Heavily AU, no wives/kids exist in this one. </p><p>This is the imagined Rhett if your brain needs a reference. https://images.app.goo.gl/Qp1ZxRXk5v2D4qv67  </p><p> </p><p>Thank you to my tumblr fam that read through this, and my lovely Elizabeth (captainsourwolf) for beta-ing for me.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <span>Your band is playing a secret show at the Troubadour--one night, ten songs--sandwiched between two other bands that tend to make their rounds in your circle. You and the boys are expecting to spend one night in LA, then fly back to New York to play a festival that weekend. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Your tour manager, Johnny, suggests posting about the show to your band’s Instagram stories and you agree, mostly to alert your fans, but maybe also a little bit as a beacon call. It’s been weeks, and you’d be lying to yourself if you didn’t admit to needing a little stress relief. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He takes the bait, DMing you within minutes, asking: </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>ur gonna be in La?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>You try to tamp down the grin that blooms over your face. You don’t want to be as affected by him as you are. It’s supposed to just be this casual thing, but truth be told, you’ve got a swarm of butterflies in your belly just looking at the text. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s telling, honestly, that he’s not just looking at your own social media, but that of your band’s, and making inferences. Maybe you’re not the only one so affected here.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah for like a day and a half.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Good. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And a moment later:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Wanna hook up?</span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>God yeah, you want to. You squeeze your thighs together just thinking about it. It’s been, well, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>while. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And even though you’re both always down to exchange an illicit text or two, nothing is quite like feeling his hands on you. But still, you gotta make him work for it, right?</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Want to, yeah. dunno if I’ll have time tho. Gotta fly back on Thursday. Got a show in NY on Saturday. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We could maybe meet up for a bit after the show? </span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fly back Friday instead.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck. That idea is </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> tempting. You pause, turning the thought over and over. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dunno. I don’t wanna fly alone.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Cmon, promise I’ll make it worth it for you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There is a pause; the three dots indicating that he’s still typing more stops you from responding right away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>haven’t seen you in weeks. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>please?</span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Your stomach does a traitorous little swoop. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Your relationship isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>about</span>
  </em>
  <span> this. This whole </span>
  <em>
    <span>I miss you</span>
  </em>
  <span> kinda thing. It’s against the rules you've established in your own head, and have been expecting him to just abide by. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> go out of your way to see each other. And even though you </span>
  <em>
    <span>hoped</span>
  </em>
  <span> he would ask, you hadn’t actually intended to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You two hook up when it’s convenient, and ignore each other when it’s not. But even as you mull over that thought, you know that hasn’t been the case for a while now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s been a long, long time since you could call this thing </span>
  </em>
  <span>casual</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You ignore the voice in your head that always insists you’re lying to yourself. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>ok, but you have to pay</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span> for my Uber to the airport.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll drive you myself. Put me on the list? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>show’s at 7.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>By five thirty it’s obvious he’s already at the venue. You’ve heard more than a few people drop his name backstage, and each time you hear it, your heart races a little faster. His band is a smidge more popular to the everyday fan, and it’s not like he can hide his 6’7 frame in the shadows. He’s visible in any crowd he finds himself in. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It makes keeping things discreet a lot more challenging when you’re both fairly recognizable within the scene. For now it’s just the crew, staff, and other bands seeing him hanging around the venue. He is friends with enough people here for it not to be weird that he’s here. Soon enough there will be 500 fans milling about, spotting him and looking for connections to </span>
  <em>
    <span>who </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sound check is in ten.” Dan, your lead singer reminds you. He’s running a wooden comb through his ginger beard before cleaning his glasses for the four hundredth time that hour. “Also, I think Rhett’s here, at the bar. Did you invite him?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, cool. Yeah, he said he might drop by.” You try not to let on that a blush is creeping up your neck, focusing instead on applying a thick coat of mascara to your lashes. “He lives pretty close to here.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You look up just in time to see Dan throwing you a hard look through the mirror pane. “Is that why you asked Johnny to schedule your flight to New York for Friday?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You don’t answer, instead staring him down through the glass, daring him to judge you. You swallow hard, refusing to blink first.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>care</span>
  </em>
  <span>, dude. Just be careful. We’ve got an important show to play this weekend.” He smooths down the front of his flannel.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well it’s a good thing I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> the guitarist then. Even if I miss my flight, all that really matters is that </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> are there.” Your voice is snide, and you feel a little guilty when he blanches, but he leaves you alone after that. You huff out a sigh, turning back to the mirror. There are red stains high on your cheeks, and a little thrill deep in your belly. You try to fight down the upward tug at the corner of your lips, but that’s just as impossible as saying no to </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span></span></p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hundreds of voices fill the venue, singing along at the top of their lungs. You can feel the music pulsing in your veins. It’s electric and you’re buzzing and it feels like your body wants to burst into white hot flames. Dan’s voice leads a back and forth chant between the four of you on stage and the audience, and it’s almost spiritual, the way you’re all connected by the chorus ringing in the air. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The one thing still grounding you to Earth is a pair of green eyes that you can’t help but search out. He’s there, in the back of the venue, shrouded in dark. It’s hard to see for the flashing lights of the stage, but you know he’s watching. You can feel his eyes on your skin, and you can just barely see him singing along. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You feel that same swoop in your stomach when your eyes connect. He’s smiling, at you, at the band, at the electric feel of hundreds of bodies pressed close together. He’s standing next to a dark haired guy you recognize, his band mate, surely. There are fans walking up to them, asking for photos or signatures or just to say hi, and he looks away from you, but only for a moment at a time. Then his eyes are back, gazing at you again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You hope you look half as confident as you feel, bathed in the multicolored lights of the stage. You feel strong, wielding your weapon with power and grace, strumming the chords in rhythm with the pounding of your heart.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span></span></p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>You’ve been off stage for all of five minutes and your body is still glazed with a sheen of sweat. Your hair sticks to your forehead, your shoulders, and you’ve only just laid your guitar into its case before a large, calloused palm smooths down your bare arm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey.” His voice is soft, rumbling, when he tugs at your elbow. You turn toward him, face tilting upward. Every time your eyes make the journey up his torso, along his neck, over his face and up to his eyes, you have to brace yourself to remember just how tall he is; you have to relearn all over again just how tiny he makes you feel. He smiles at you, all cool green eyes and curved lips. “There you are.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Your lips tug into a tiny smile, too, before you’re able to stop them. He’s got his warm hand on your neck, thumb tilting your chin up toward him. His lips are on yours, soft but insistent. It’s a kiss completely unlike the last time you were together, where it was all passion and need, teeth clanging together with urgency. There is no biting this time, no push and pull and desperation, only the smooth sweep of his tongue along the seam of your lips. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s parting you open and dipping inside for a taste. There is no rush this time, you have all night and the next day. No one is going to find you hiding in the bunks, racing against an invisible countdown of expectation. No one is going to come looking for you in a broom closet, hoping for just a few more minutes alone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The thought of being caught out in the open is thrilling, but it also makes you anxious. It has you pulling away from him just as his hands find their way to your hips. The alarm bells of </span>
  <em>
    <span>not about this</span>
  </em>
  <span> keep ringing in your head and you will your over eager heart to stop pounding against your rib cage. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You turn back to your guitar case, busying yourself with securing the latches. “Ugh, sorry, ‘m all gross. I thought I’d get a chance to shower before you came and found me.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You move to stack the hard case on the top of the gear cart waiting to be loaded into the utility van. He’s a step ahead of you, taking it from you and nestling it safely among the other instruments headed for the airport. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Couldn’t wait.” He says, smirking. His enthusiasm is contagious, and you can’t help but give into his excitement. If feels good, knowing he’s wanting it just as badly as you do. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he turns back to you, pulling you into his arms, you fold against him willingly. His shirt smells like laundry and the smoke of the bar and the tiniest bit of sweat; you secretly relish it. His heart is pounding against your cheek and your body feels so warm, wrapped up in him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He feels familiar, like a summer spent on the road, stealing moments together when you could. His hands are gliding over your skin, which probably feels a little weird to him because you’re still a bit sweaty, but he isn’t shying away. He never does. He’s always </span>
  <em>
    <span>all in, </span>
  </em>
  <span>one hundred percent. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s holding you tight, pressing the entire length of your bodies together, asking in a low rumble, “Do you need to hang out for a little bit, or can I steal you away now?” The dip of his voice is soft and imploring, and it’s edged with pure want, his hand slipping up to cradle the nape of your neck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nah, let’s go.” You pull away and reach for your bag, grabbing his hand to pull him toward the door. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span></span></p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>His car is parked about a three minute walk from the service exit of the venue. Rhett leads you there with a hand curled around your hip, fingers pressing firmly into the soft flesh there. It makes you feel safe, so you let him keep you close, occasionally bumping into him as you walk together. He’s talking about your pedal board, about how he wants to build his own, and how the generic off-the-shelf one he uses now just doesn’t keep his shit together like a bespoke board would. You’re smiling because for one, you’re super proud of your diy board, and for another, you appreciate how enthusiastic he is about your craftsmanship. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s just so </span>
  <em>
    <span>charming</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the way he talks with his hands, and keeps looking at your face while he explains his point, and you can’t help how easy it is to want to be close to him. You’ve got those ridiculous butterflies in your stomach again, but the sensation is not sending you into a state of panic like it normally would. Before your brain can catch up to the rest of you, you come to a stop on the sidewalk, grabbing his wrist and pushing him up against the brick wall of the building you’re passing by. His look of surprise instantly melts into a delighted smile and he puts his hands on your waist, pulling you tight against him, and your mouths meet in a lazy sweep. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he breathes out against your lips, a hand moving up to cup your jaw, tilting your head to the side to press in deeper, tongue slipping into your mouth. You’re taking everything he’s offering you, you want it all. You press yourself against him as close as possible, feeling him growing hard against your belly. You’re immediately taken back to the last time you were together, weeks ago, when he had you pressed against another wall, shoulders scraping against rough brick, begging for </span>
  <em>
    <span>harder </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>deeper, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>more, please. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The ghostly memory of the sting along your shoulder throbs through you, the same way it did for days after the two of you parted, sparking heat in your core every time you touched the roughed up skin.</span>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You think he might be having the same memory, how the palm of his hand scrubbed hard against the brick as he kept you both upright. Now his breath is coming in harsh and ragged puffs and he’s pulling you roughly against him to grind his bulge against you. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Fuck, baby.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s tempting to stay like this, to see how far you’re both willing to take it, out in the open, but you push away from him, breathing hard yourself, and you’re both looking at each other like you’re waking up from a dream. His eyes are slightly out of focus, mouth swollen but still smiling. </span>
  <em>
    <span>His smile is everything. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The thought comes out of nowhere, but it’s true, you know it is. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>God, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t wait</span>
  </em>
  <span> to ruin him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“C’mon” you growl. “You said you’d make it worth it for me. I’m tired of waiting.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He grabs your hand and pulls you toward a side lot, all but dragging you along in his excitement. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He leads you to a black pickup truck, which seems kind of out of place for LA, but also seems perfectly </span>
  <em>
    <span>him. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He pushes at you until you’re pressed to the side of it before crushing his lips to yours, just for a beat, then he opens the door, helping you up into the cab. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a little surreal, watching him toss your bags into the backseat, then jog around to hop into the driver’s side. It occurs to you then that the two of you have never been truly </span>
  <em>
    <span>alone. </span>
  </em>
  <span>There has always been the threat of a band mate or roadie or tour manager finding the two of you hidden away. You’ve never been able to just </span>
  <em>
    <span>stare </span>
  </em>
  <span>at him, to drink him in like you are right now, without wondering if someone else was watching, noticing, deciphering those long quelled feelings you’ve been ignoring for more than a year now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes half a song pouring out of his radio before his hand is back on you, curling his long fingers around your knee, thumb rubbing back and forth over the black denim in rhythmic strokes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s singing along, keeping the beat by tapping his fingers against your kneecap, and his deep country twang adds a layer of sincerity to the song. You watch the colors of the roadway pass by, highlighting the planes of his face, and he looks ethereal. You’re not sure how much longer the drive is to reach your destination, but you’re content to watch him as long as possible.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He grins over at you, shyly, and at the next red light he leans over to you, pressing a kiss to your cheek, saying “I’m really fucking glad you’re here.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span></span></p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>He pulls the car off of La Cienega onto a quiet residential street, pulling into a driveway leading up to a gorgeous Spanish style house.You lean forward, peering out beyond the windshield of the truck to take in the sight. You’re not totally sure, but based on the smooth slate stone and dark wooden accents, the home looks far outside of the budget of a touring musician in a band like Rhett’s. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uhh,” you start, looking over at him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nice, isn’t it?” He smirks, pulling past the house on the gravel path leading behind it. “Belongs to the guy that owns the recording studio we’re at right now.” He points at a smaller, but equally pretty structure set a little ways back on the property. “I’m renting his pool house while we record. He’s letting me stay here for pretty cheap by LA standards, I just have to keep an eye on the main house while he’s in Europe.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, wow.” You breathe out, impressed all around. “That’s like winning the lottery around here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, no kidding.” He agrees, pulling the truck to a stop. He leans over the center console, dropping a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth before reaching into the back seat to grab your backpack and carry-on bag. “C’mon, lets get inside.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You both walk past the darkened main house;, the only light is coming from the solar path markers highlighting the stone walkway to the back yard. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s an elevated wooden deck that surrounds a beautiful pool to the left and the cozy detached guest house to the right. Everything looks absurdly expensive, and you feel strangely out of place with your ripped jeans and crumpled, sweat stained tank. He looks just as out of place, so you figure it’s probably okay. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He pulls out his keys, opening the heavy looking wooden door and stepping aside to let you in. “I tried to clean up, but I’m not really sure I’d call it a success.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think you forget, I currently live on a bus with five grown men.” You laugh, stepping over the threshold of the door and into an intimate little living room bathed in the warm light of a desk lamp. There’s a brown leather couch that looks like it would smell like caramel. It’s pushed back against a heather wall, teak end tables framing it on either side. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He tosses his keys onto a half-moon table seated next to the door. “Want the grand tour?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You look around at the tiny space, another tiny laugh bubbling up. “Sure, I want the full experience.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He pulls you to the center of the living room, standing in front of the small coffee table placed in front of the couch. He’s standing behind you, hands on your shoulders, and he lets his palms slide down your arms, “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he starts in his best faux-announcer voice while he wraps his arms around your waist, your own arms pinned to your sides. “The tour is about to begin; please keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You laugh out loud, struggling to free yourself from his arms, but it’s no use. “You’re a dork. Why are you such a dork?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He uses his body to rotate yours toward the kitchenette, all pretty gray granite and dark blue cabinets. It’s barely four feet of counter space but it seems perfect for how much he probably uses it. “To the left, you see the sparkling chef’s kitchen where many a gourmet frozen burrito has been lovingly prepared and consumed.”  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He pivots you just a hair, until you’re facing a door leading to a small bathroom. From your vantage point you can see the gleaming white marble and glass frame of a shower, a toilet and a vanity. “And here, made of Italian marble more expensive than all of my worldly possessions put together, is the bathroom. You’d think they expected to host fucking cocktail parties in there with how much money they spent.” He chuckles right into your ear, squeezing you tighter. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s warm all down your back and you let yourself relax against him. The room smells like him, like citrus and cedar wood and an underlying musk that makes your blood simmer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And finally the pièce de résistance.” He points you toward the opposite side of the living room, sectioned off by a half wall. Just beyond the opening is a bedroom highlighted by the glow of the pool just outside the window. There’s a bed, king sized, which dwarfs the rest of the room. “We’ll visit that attraction later.” He kisses a ticklish patch of skin behind your ear. He knows what that spot does to you, and he immediately runs his hands up your arms to feel the goosebumps erupt all over your skin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And that!” He straightens up, pulling away from you. “That concludes our tour. Cocktails will be served in the kitchen, please have your drink ticket ready.” He chuckles at his own joke, walking toward the silver refrigerator and opening it to reveal stocked shelves. Seems surprising, considering how often he has to travel. He pulls out a bottle of vodka and turns back toward you. “Wanna shot? Or, I’ve got stuff to mix it in.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Like what?” You walk over and perch yourself on a barstool at the end of the counter. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He turns back to the opened fridge, ducking low to look around. “I’ve got some, uh, Sprite? Or, well.” He pulls a carton out and looks at you sheepishly. “There’s some pineapple juice.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You stifle a chuckle, “Kinda presumptuous of you. Think you’re gonna get your dick sucked?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He grins at you, his hand rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I hadn’t ruled it out.” He busies himself with pouring drinks and you watch the flex and curve of the muscles in his back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I hadn’t ruled it out, either.” You muse out loud. His hands fumble at your words and he splashes vodka onto the countertop in his haste. He’s ridiculous, and you can’t wait to get your mouth on him again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span></span></p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>You make it through two drinks worth of small talk before things progress. After he pours the second round, he moves to stand in front of your place on your stool, pressing in close to kiss your drink from your lips. There’s a bit more bite to his kisses than earlier, which is far more familiar, more comfortable. You feel relaxed and all too happy to let him take the lead, licking hotly into your mouth as his hands find your hips. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Want you.” His voice is hoarse with honesty and it lights you on fire. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good.” You feel brave, reckless and hot, and his mouth is on yours in a rush and his hands feel like they’re everywhere all at once. He pulls you off the stool, to your feet, breaking the kiss once you’re too low to comfortably reach. His hand grabs your wrist and pulls you the few steps to the couch. Your hands on are his chest, bunching up the fabric to reveal his belly, smooth and golden and dusted with the finest, softest golden hair. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Your hands are on his belt, and you’re annoyed that he even bothered to wear one. You barely have the buckle open, button popped and his zipper down, exposing the bulge in his pants, before he is pushing your hands out of the way and reaching for the button of your black jeans. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He flops down on the couch, eye level with your belly button, and his hands are on you again, working your jeans open and down, dragging them, along with your black cotton panties, over your hips, past your knees and out of his way.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One of his large hands wraps around the curve of your hip, pulling you forward to kiss the lines on your belly where your jeans bit into your skin. The other is reaching behind you, up the back of your tank, to pop open your bra. It’s a move that took him countless tries to perfect.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Got it in one this time.” You laugh, looking down at him, sinking your hand in his hair. He looks up at you with a moody look on his face, but his eyes are sparkling with his own hidden laugh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“C’mere.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He tugs you into his lap again, a leg on either side of him, and your sex is exposed to the cool air. He cups the globes of your ass with his palms, squeezing just this side of rough, and pulling you flush against his body. You both moan, echoing each other as your wet mound presses hard onto his cloth-covered cock. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even perched in his lap like this, he’s still almost a head taller than you, and when you look up into his face, he’s gazing at you like a starving man, desperate to devour you whole. His lips are swollen red, begging to be pressed against yours again. With a slow grind of your hips, and your hand at the nape of his hairline, you drag him down for a filthy kiss. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s kissing you hot and deep, until you’re almost breathless. You’re not sure anything could feel as good as his beard against your chin and your clit pressed against the ridge of his cock, until he sneaks his hand behind you, fingertips spreading your folds and barely dipping in. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You pull your mouth away from his long enough to whimper, pushing back against his finger tips, but he immediately pulls you back, keeping your pelvis pressed hard against his shaft. “Been thinking about this for a while, baby; imagining having you in my lap, all the time in the world and no one around to interrupt us.” He slips his middle finger into you, swallowing down the moan you can’t stop from spilling past your lips. “Yeah, baby, that’s it.” He pulls his lone digit out, sinking two fingers back in, in its place. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>you chant, riding his fingers. Your fingers grip his cock, peeling the cloth of his boxers away until he’s free, your fingertips stroking his shaft, slick with warm precum and your own wetness. He’s long and thick and so hot in your hands. It’s been entirely too long, </span>
  <em>
    <span>weeks</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and you know you’ve been missing it just as much as he has. His fingers feel amazing, but you need more already, you want to feel him deep in you, you want to watch him come apart all over you. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s biting at your lips, not even remotely trying to stay quiet as he commands you. “Want you so damn bad, wanna watch you ride me, baby. Wanna feel you squeeze my cock like you’re squeezing my fingers. Want you screaming for me.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I wanna cum on your cock, Rhett</span>
  <em>
    <span>, fuck.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>It might be the booze that loosens your tongue, makes you filthy, lets you say exactly what you know he wants to hear. You’re stroking him, hand tight and steady and slick. “Been thinkin’ about you, too. Fuck me, Rhett. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Need it. Need you.</span>
  <em>
    <span>” </span>
  </em>
  <span>You can feel your muscles tightening around his long digits and you know you’re close, you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>fucking close, if he’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m gonna make you cum all night, baby.” He promises, fingers stroking firmly against that sweet spot inside of you. He plays you like an instrument, and you’re so close to singing for him, whimpering against his neck. His cock is leaking between you and the pad of your thumb is pressing into his slit. He lets out a groan and the sound reverberates down your spine, white hot electricity radiating all through you. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You snake one hand behind yourself, tugging his hand away at the same time you line him up to your entrance, and without a second thought, you’re sinking onto him, head thrown back at the feel of him splitting you open. He brings his wet fingers to your mouth, and you don’t waste a breath before you’re wrapping your lips around them, suckling at them and tasting yourself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Baby, oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>god</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” His hips are bucking up, both hands gripping your hips and pulling you down hard onto him. His grip is bruising, and you don’t ever want him to let go.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s so </span>
  <em>
    <span>much</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You’re so full and he’s so </span>
  <em>
    <span>deep</span>
  </em>
  <span> in you, stretching you open in that perfect way you can’t ever get enough of. He’s licking the taste of you off of your lips, groaning with every squeeze of your muscles around his cock, and you’re riding him like it’s the very last thing you ever plan to do. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Your mouth is on his neck, sucking evidence of your pleasure into his skin; it’s coursing through your body, all consuming, every nerve on fire. “C’mon, baby. Give it to me. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Need</span>
  </em>
  <span> to feel you. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>so...</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Endorphins are flooding your veins; neither of you can catch your breath. You’re mouthing at his throat, just to keep yourself grounded, to feel his steadfast body under you, in you, connecting you to reality in a way that seems impossible with the way your body is shattering into a million little pieces. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The impossible heat inside you rages, quenched only when you feel him spilling into you. Your heart and lungs are burning white hot, you’re dizzy and desperate to crest the wave, to come up for air, until his mouth finds yours and you can finally breathe again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span></span></p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a beeping coming from your phone and when you turn it over, it merrily tells you it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>4am </span>
  </em>
  <span>on Friday morning. Your muscles all scream for you to go back to sleep, but there are alerts on your screen that grab your attention.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The first one reads </span>
  <em>
    <span>9am Flight LAX - LGA has been cancelled. A refund request has been processed on your behalf. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh. Well that’s definitely not what you were expecting. Well, it looks like you can sleep in, and Rhett can make good on that promise to make you breakfast in the morning. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The second one reads: All residents and visitors of the Greater Los Angeles area are encouraged to shelter in place. All public meetings of more than ten people are to be postponed until further notice. Visit ca.gov for more details. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a shift behind you, a strong arm wrapping around your middle and a soft beard nuzzling into your neck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“S’wrong?” he grumbles, sleepy and warm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You lock your phone again, tossing it on the bedside table before nudging back against him, letting your eyes slip closed. “Nothing that can’t wait til morning.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
    <li>
        A [Restricted Work] by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScorchedAngel/pseuds/Mythical-Ross">Mythical-Ross (ScorchedAngel)</a>
 Log in to view.
    </li>
  </ul>
</div></div></div>
</body>
</html>